But, the meal finished, the sailor, instead of setting to, simply walked to the dinghy, beckoning the girl to follow him. He got in, took the sculls, and as she stepped after him, taking her seat gingerly in the stern sheets, pushed off.
The pair landed on the reef, Kearney leading the way and glancing about him till they came on the remains of the fire.
“Now,” said Kearney, halting and pointing to the ashes and the scorched coral, “that’s what you’ve been doin’, is it? What made you light that fire for, eh?”
Although the language of Kearney was to her as Double Dutch to a Chinese, she knew quite well his drift. He had discovered the fact that she had lit the fire. How? Maybe the god of the little ships had told him. She said nothing, however, as he went on, his voice rising in anger with every word.
“What made you touch them matches for, smellin’ round when I was asleep and makin’ off with the matches? I’ll l’arn you.”
He picked up a stalk of seaweed and make a “skelp” at her. She was quite close and it was impossible to miss her. All the same, the stalk touched nothing; she had skipped aside.
Trees had once grown here on the reef and the coral was smooth, and round and about this smooth patch Kearney, blazing with righteous wrath, pursued her. It was like trying to whip the wind. He tried to drive her on to the rough coral, but she wasn’t to be caught like that. She kept to the smooth, and in three or four minutes he was done.
Flinging the stick of seaweed away, he wiped his brow with his arms. Dick was watching them from the sward, and he felt that he had been making a fool of himself.
“Now never you do that no more!” said Mr. Kearney, shaking his finger at her. “If you do, b’gosh, I’ll skelp you roun’ the island.” He nodded his head to give force to this tremendous threat and was turning to the dinghy when something caught his eye.
Away to the east, across the sparkling blue, stood a sail.